Part 4
* This stanza was written after arriving at the hall, and finding Sheridan among the Generals present, which may serve as an explanation for the change of tense in that verse. Not knowing that General Sheridan was a member of the Society, no mention had been made of him when the poem was written.
_THE PEOPLE'S FAVORITE_
[A tribute to Ex-Governor Fairchild.]
God bless the hero of my song! Six years the chieftain of our State! We've held him, in our hearts, so long, And proved him good, and true, and great. That now, we could not let him go, Even if he would have it so.
I hear the praises of his name From east and west, and north and south, His foes are silenced from sheer shame: His deeds have silenced Slander's mouth, And all the little imps of spite He's crushed beneath the heel of Right.
He dropped an arm one bloody day, In beating down the walls of wrong, But no strength went with it away; His other grew full thrice as strong. Few men, with their two hands, have done As noble deeds as he with one.
His soul speaks through his eye of blue, And all men know him one to trust, Because his heart is kind and true, And all his actions prove him just. I speak for thousands when I cry, "The people's favorite for aye!"
May God be with him all his days-- With him and all he holds most dear; And if my little song of praise Should chance to fall upon his ear, May he accept the offering, And know that from my heart I sing.
1872
_DREAM-TIME_
Throughout these mellow autumn days, All sweet and dim, and soft with haze, I argue with my unwise heart, That fain would choose the idler's part.
My heart says, "Let us lie and dream Under the sunshine's softened beam. This is the dream-time of the year, When Heaven itself seems bending near.
"See how the calm still waters lie And dream beneath the arching sky. The sun draws on a veil of haze, And dreams away these golden days.
"Put by the pen--lay thought aside, And cease to battle with the tide, Let us, like Nature, rest and dream And float with th' current of the stream."
So pleads my heart. I answer "Nay, Work waits for you and me to-day. Behind these autumn hours of gold, The winter lingers, bleak and cold.
"And those who dream too long or much, Must waken, shivering, at his touch, With naught to show for vanished hours, But dust of dreams and withered flowers.
"So now, while days are soft and warm, We must make ready for the storm." Thus, through the golden, hazy weather, My heart and I converse together.
And yet, I dare not turn my eyes To pebbly shores or tender skies, Because I am so fain to do E'en as my heart pleads with me to.
October, 1872.
_LINES WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES BUELL_
Something is missing from the balmy spring. There is no perfume in its gentle breath; And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing, And all the bees chant of the grave and death. Something is missing from the earth. One morn The angels called a new name on the roll; A spirit soldier to their ranks was borne, And all Christ's army welcomed the pure young soul. He died. Two little words, but only God Can understand the awful depths of woe They hold for those who pass beneath the rod, Praying for strength, from Him who aimed the blow. He died. The soldier who fought long and well, Who walked with Death upon the battle-field, Among the bellowing guns--the shrieking shell-- In poison prison dens--and would not yield.
A six month three times told, he languished there, And yet he lived; oh, young heart, strong and brave! Thank God, who heard the oft repeated prayer; Thank God, he does not fill a Southern grave; That when he died, the loved ones gathered round, And eased the anguish of those last, sad hours. That gentle hands can keep the precious mound All green with mosses, and abloom with flowers.
He was so young and fair; and life was sweet. Christ give the mourners strength to drain the cup! He went to make the Heavenly ranks complete, God sent the angel Death, to bear him up. So young, and fair and brave; beloved by all; The lisping child--life's veteran, bent and gray-- And eyes grow dim, and bitter tear-drops fall Upon the mound where lies the soldier's clay.
Oh! it is sweet to feel that God knows best, Who called in youth this brother, friend and son, And sweet to lean upon the Saviour's breast, And looking upward, say, "Thy will be done." But something is missing from the balmy spring; There is no perfume in its gentle breath, And there are sobs in songs the wild birds sing, And all the bees chant of the grave, and death.
_UNDER THE WILLOW_
Under the willow, you and I Walked in the gloaming, when love ran high; That wild first love, that was almost pain, That we never on earth can know again.
The winds were soft, and the night was calm; You held my hand in your throbbing palm. With the fire of passion your dark eyes glowed, And the tide of my pulses madly flowed.
You drew me closely against your side-- You asked me softly to be your bride. I trembled, and flushed, and could not speak, But you knew my answer, and kissed my cheek.
"When earth has perished, and time is dead. Our love will still live on," we said. "It shall have a steady and quenchless ray, Though youth and strength, and life decay."
The night-bird warbled a song just then; It sounded to us like a glad amen, As we built our castles, and made our vows, Under the willow's drooping boughs.
* * * * *
Under the willows, to and fro We walked in the gloaming, when love ran low. The tide had ebbed, the current dried, And our wild, mad passion had slowly died.
I know not wherefore, but widely apart We had steadily drifted, heart from heart. Something invisible came between-- I know not what--it was fate, I ween.
The scales had dropped from our youthful eyes, And we viewed each other in strange surprise; And she you deemed an angel before, You found was a woman--and nothing more.
And the idol I worshiped for gold, alway, I found was the poorest kind of clay. And so it perished, at one cold breath, The passion we said would live through death.
And under the willow again we strayed, And sundered the vows that once were made. We felt no sorrow--we knew no woe-- Since _love_ had perished, 'twere better so.
We have dreamt our dream; we have reached the end. You said so calmly, "farewell, my friend." The night-bird uttered a wailing cry; It sounded to me like a last good-bye.
I am glad that we sundered our vows, that night. My pathway is pleasant, my heart is light. But I feel, my friend, as the days flow on, That something of youth from my life is gone.
And never, on earth, can we know again, That first, mad passion, so near to pain, When under the willow, you and I Walked in the gloaming, and love ran high.
_DOUBTING_
Sometimes we mortals, writhing in bitter anguish, Crushed by great griefs, that seem too hard to bear, And led to doubt God's goodness and his wisdom, And will not lift our burdened hearts in prayer. I think these moments are the very darkest, The blackest and the coldest that we know, And I think God, and Christ, and all the angels, Pity us most, in this phase of our woe.
I had a little child I fondly cherished; A winsome, playful, tender-hearted boy, Strong willed, yet gentle, gay, yet mild and loving. He was our household idol and our joy. We lavished on him stores of pure affection; We gave him the best love our hearts possessed, We dressed him in rich robes of finest texture, And gazing on him, felt this earth life-blest.
We taught him all things good, and true, and noble; We told him of the dear Lord crucified; We planned for him a bright and happy future; We guarded him from danger--yet he died. Not all the gold and riches we might lavish, Not all our gold could save him from the tomb. He died! and when the sweet eyes closed forever, They shut the sunshine in, and left but gloom.
To-day I saw a drunkard's child--a vagrant; Ill-clad, ill-fed, uncombed, unwashed, and wild; His home the street--his lessons vice and sorrow-- His garments rags--his youthful lips defiled With rum, tobacco, lies and loud blaspheming; What can his future be, but one of crime? And thinking of this, and of my boy who slumbered, My heart felt hard, just for a little time.
It seemed so strange, that he, a homeless vagrant, Unloved, unloving, treading the road to sin, That he was spared; and mine so fondly cherished-- Mine so beloved, whose life seemed so twined in And round our heart strings, that when he was taken, It left them torn and bleeding--he should die; Ah me, it seemeth strange; and yet God's wisdom I can not doubt, nor must I question why.
He, being all-wise, Father, King, Creator, It would be strange, if you, or I should know All that He knows, or understand His wisdom, All things He does, or why He does them so. Were all this plain, unto our mortal vision, There would be nothing new to learn above; So, though the cross be great, and the prize hidden, I need not doubt His wisdom or His love.
1871
_AT SUNSET_
I sit at my cottage window, In the light of the sun's last rays, And the hill-tops glow with splendor, And the west is all ablaze. My room is flooded with glory, My soul, with a wild delight, And my heart is filled with poems, That I can not speak, or write.
O, darker, and deeper, and grander, The glory flames on high, And I trace the walls of a city. In that beautiful western sky: A city all gold and crimson-- All purple and amber red; And the streets are paved with crystal, Where the feet of angels tread.
O, soulless pen and pencil. Thy efforts are weak and vain; The pen of the poet falters. And his heart is full of pain: And the artist drops his pencil, And weeps in mute despair, For he cannot paint the glory That lies in the sunset there.
But the city fadeth--fadeth; The glory turns to grey; The golden lights are dying, And the splendor melts away. And I know it was only the shadow Of the city built on high-- Only the poor, pale shadow, That I saw in the sunset sky.
And I long for that other city-- The city that God hath made, Where the glory never paleth. And the splendors never fade. O, there at the feet of Jesus, In anthems of praise, I know My soul shall utter the poems That fill it to overflow.
1869
_A TWILIGHT THOUGHT_
The sweet maid, Day, has pillowed her head On the breast of her dusky lover Night; The sun has made her a couch of red, And woven a cover of dim twilight; And the lover kisses the maiden's brow, As low on her couch she sleepeth now.
Here at my window, above the street, I sit, as the day lies in repose; And I list to the ceaseless tramp of feet. And I watch this human tide that flows, Upward and downward, to and fro. As the waves of an ocean, ebb and flow.
Over and over the busy town, Hither and thither, through all the day; One goes up, and another down-- Each in his own allotted way. Strangers and kinsmen pass and meet, And jar, and jostle upon the street.
People that never met before-- People that never will meet again: A careless glance of the eye--no more, And both are lost in the sea of men. Strangers, divided by _miles_ in heart, Under my window meet and part.
But whether their feet pass up, or down, Over the river, east or west, Whether it's in or out of the town, To a haunt of sin, or a home of rest, We are journeying to a common goal-- There is one last point for every soul.
Strangers and kinsmen, friend and foe, Whether their aims are great or small, Whether their paths lie high, or low-- There is one last resting place for all. Then upward, and downward, go surging by-- Under my window--you _all_ must die.
1870
_TRUE WARRIORS_
Not always those who walk on steadily, In the straight path, where martyr's feet have trod, Whose raiments seem of spotless purity, Not always are they most beloved of God. Although he sees, and knows their righteousness, And from his throne, with loving eyes, looks down, And hovers near, to comfort and to bless, And holds for each fair brow a starry crown--
Yet there are those, who sometimes wander out Into forbidden paths of sin, and grief, Who sometimes hover on the brink of doubt, Crying, "Oh, God, help thou mine unbelief!" Whose lives are one long battle with their sins, Who long for righteousness, yet cling to earth; And he who battles thus, and battling wins, God holds, and prizes, as of truer worth.
For greater is he, fighting this good fight, Falling repeatedly, and prone to wrong, Than he who walketh calmly in the light, And never falls, because he is so strong. Who never sins, because sin tempts him not. To him who fights temptation one by one, How sweet God's words when the last fight is fought, "Beloved servant, well, and nobly done."
1870
_ONE OF THESE_
Some have robes, of silk and velvet, Cast like manna, down; Others toil through wind and weather, For a homespun gown. Some are born to ride in coaches, Sitting at their ease; Others plod foot-sore and weary. (I am one of these.)
Some have sounding name and title, Here upon the earth; Others dwell apart from glory-- No one knows their worth. Some have wealth, and fame, and beauty, All the things that please; Some are poor, and plain and lonely. (I am one of these.)
Some complain, in midst of pleasures, Of a hard, sad lot, Doubting God, denying heaven, Loving, trusting not. Others, hedged about with sorrows, Do, on bended knees, Praise and bless the Lord forever. (I am one of these.)
_A FANCY_
Drop down the crimson curtains, And shut out the dazzling snow, The cold white mantle that covers The hills, where the grasses should grow; And stir up the fire till it burneth, With a heat like the midsummer sun. And hang up the cage by the window, And bring in the plants, one by one.
Till they perfume the air with a fragrance As rare as the summer can bring. And call to the bird, till he trilleth The sweetest of notes he can sing. And let me lie here, while you fan me, Till the lazy air stirs, like a breeze. That comes o'er the hills in the summer, And rustles the tops of the trees.
Then sing me a song of the summer, A song full of warmth and sunlight, And I will forget that the winter Stalks over the earth in his might. I will dream that I lie in the clover, And your voice is the voice of the breeze, And the bird in the cage is the robin, That sends down his song from the trees.
1871
_TIRED_
My heart and soul are all too tired to tell; So weary, Lord, Of this long, ceaseless work of doing well, Without reward.
Oh, I have been thy servant now for years, Nor made complaint, Though my life cup has been abrim with tears, But now I faint.
And I have worked for thee, with all my strength, In pain and woe. My Master, canst thou chide me, if at length I ask to go?
Oh, if the soul is purified by fire, Then I am blest. The laborer is worthy of his hire-- Lord, give me rest.
I know that I have sinned in many ways-- A sinner made. But I have _tried_ to serve thee all my days-- I'm not afraid.
I know full well my record is not clear, Nor white as snow; But better meet it than to linger here. Lord, let me go.
_NEVER_
I said, last winter, When the grasses grow, And there are flowers abloom in every place, And soft south winds have melted all the snow, Then I shall meet my darling face to face; And I shall clasp, and hold her hand in mine, And I shall see her blue eyes glow and shine.
And now the grass is green on moor and lea; The snow has vanished, and the spring is here, The robins shout from every forest tree, The meadow larks are singing loud and clear, And there are flowers abloom in every place-- And yet I do not see my darling's face.
All soft and mild, the gentle south wind blew, The snow clouds vanished, and the sunshine fell Upon the meadow, and the daisies grew, And violets and pansies graced the dell. The bees are busy, while they softly hum, And yet--and yet--my darling does not come.
Alas! for never will she come again, She sleepeth, sleepeth, still and silent now; Her couch is hollowed from the grassy plain, And daisies bloom and blow above her brow; And I can never hold her hand in mine, And I can never see her blue eyes shine.
1869
_TRUE LOVE_
I think true love is something like a tree; The oak, that lifts its branches to the sky. The woodman's axe may strike it fatally, Or it may fall, when mighty winds sweep by. And where it grew, the flowers may bloom instead, And all may seem as though the tree were dead.
But underneath the grass, and flowers, there lies, Hid from the gaping world, a tiny root, A little living germ, that never dies; And ever and anon its branches shoot Up through the earth, and mock, and strive to be The mighty forest king--the parent tree.
So love may wither, at the hand of Fate, Or fall beneath the killing winds that blow; And other loves may spring up, soon or late, And flowers of forgetfulness may grow, Over the spot where love once grew instead, And we may think the old-time passion dead.
And still the little germ lies in the heart, So closely hidden that it is not known; And ever and anon its branches start-- Vain mimics of the passion that has flown. Though love, once slain, can live not, as of yore, I think its ghost will haunt us evermore.
1871
_HIS SONG_
A poet wandered the city street, With tattered garments, and aching feet; Want and hunger had dimmed his eye, And the children jeered him, as he passed by.
But one of the children sang, at play, A song his mother had sung that day. The poet listened, with cheeks aflame, For the song was his own, and this was fame!
But his heart was lightened. The song of the boy Had thrilled the strings, with a strange, sweet joy. "Though I may lie with the nameless dead, The songs I have written will live," he said.
1872
_WHEN YOU GO AWAY_
When you go away, my friend, When we say our last good-bye, Then the summer time will end, And the winter will be nigh. Though the green grass decks the heather, And the birds sing all the day, There will be no summer weather, After you have gone away.
When I look into your eyes, I shall thrill with sharpest pain; Thinking that beneath the skies, I may never look again. You will feel a moment's sorrow-- I shall feel a lasting grief; You forgetting on the morrow-- I, to mourn with no relief
When we say the last, sad words, And you are no longer near, All the winds, and all the birds, Can not keep the summer here. Life will lose its full completeness, Lose it, not for you, but me; All the beauty and the sweetness Earth can hold, I shall not see.
1870
_BLEAK WEATHER_
Dear love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew, The white snows are falling; And all through the wood, where I wandered with you, The loud winds are calling; And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune, Neath the elm--you remember, Over tree-top and mountain has followed the June, And left us--December.
Has left, like a friend that is true in the sun, And false in the shadows. He has found new delights, in the land where he's gone, Greener woodlands and meadows. What care we? let him go! let the snow shroud the lea, Let it drift on the heather! We can sing through it all; I have you--you have me, And we'll laugh at the weather.
The old year may die, and a new one be born That is bleaker and colder; But it cannot dismay us; we dare it--we scorn, For love makes us bolder. Ah Robin! sing loud on the far-distant lea, Thou friend in fair weather; But here is a song sung, that's fuller of glee, By two warm hearts together.
1870
_THE TALE THE ROBIN TOLD_
I walked to-day, in the grassy dell, Where the cunning ground-bird hides her nest, And just where the plum-tree's shadow fell, I sat me down for a while to rest. And a robin came, and sat in the tree, And told a long-lost tale to me.
Of a maiden, pure as the morning light, And fresh as a white rose, bathed in dew. Of a youth with eyes like a stormy night, And a heart that nothing of candor knew. And all through the valley, green and fair, The youth and the maiden wandered there.
He plucked the violets, blue and pale, The lily white, and the roses red, With every flower that decked the vale-- But the maid was fairest of all, he said. And the robin saw him kiss her cheek, And the maiden blushed, but did not speak.
And he held her hand, in a lover's way, And he saw the blush that his glance awoke, And with eye, and tone, he seemed to say The words that his false lips never spoke. And of her strength, and her life a part, Was the love that grew in the maiden's heart.
But the summer died, and the autumn came, And the maiden walked in the vale alone; And the hopeless love, like a scorching flame, Burned out her life, but she made no moan. And she drooped, and died, as the year grew old, And this was the tale that the robin told.
_A MEMORY_
Oh, do you remember that night, long ago, When I gave you the rose from my hair? And you whispered, "I'll wear it close over my heart, As I cherish the sweet giver there?"
'Twas a long time ago? you've forgotten, perhaps, That such a thing ever occurred. But to-night, as I sit in the firelight's glow, My heart's with the memory stirred.